Сонеты

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail
                    my dear time’s waste:

Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid
                    in death’s dateless night,
And weep afresh love’s long
                       since cancell’d woe,
And moan the expense of many
                          a vanish’d sight:

Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.

33. «Full many a glorious morning have I seen…»

Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;

Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:

Even so my sun one early morn did shine
With all triumphant splendor on my brow;
But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;
The region cloud hath mask’d him
                                    from me now.

Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Suns of the world may stain
                    when heaven’s sun staineth.

40. «Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all…»

Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all;
What hast thou then more
                    than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst
                    true love call;
All mine was thine before
                    thou hadst this more.

Then if for my love thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;
But yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.

I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty;
And yet, love knows, it is a greater grief
To bear love’s wrong
                    than hate’s known injury.

Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes.

42. «That thou hast her, it is not all my grief…»